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UC Merced
English Honors Theses

Title
Asexual Erasure Undone: A Short Literary History of Asexuality in 19th- to 20th-Century
Literary Classics

Permalink
https://escholarship.org/uc/item/5xp1v0kr

Author
Luce, Savie

Publication Date
2021-06-14

Peer reviewed

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Asexual Erasure Undone: A Short Literary History of Asexuality in 19th- to

                              20th-Century Literary Classics

                                           by Savie Luce

                      Preface: The Political Discourses Behind Asexuality

       The world often mistakes silence for contentment, thus overlooking the contention that

exists among us. Silence becomes a vessel disguised as peacefulness, carrying with it all the

unspoken injustices that occur on a daily basis; it’s the leak in a large boat that no one thinks to

look for until the ship has already begun to sink.

       I, too, grew up in a quiet place.

       It was a town where I was expected to unobtrusively accept the political discourses

around me, either because I was too young to have a say in them or because—as I was so often

told—it wasn’t my place. In places like these where little is said about bothersome details,

conversations about things like the LGBT+ community weren’t discussed until they became an

inconvenience to daily life (or to others that opposed it in the town’s community). This is to say

that, growing up, what we didn’t talk about we didn’t see. What we didn’t see needn’t be

discussed, and so the vicious cycle continued.

       I was eleven when I first heard the word ‘gay’, and it was used as an insult between two

boys at my elementary school. I had no idea what it meant or why it was an insult, but I was of

the understanding that it was a bad thing to be. I, for this reason, was scared to be associated with

it. When children are exposed to language like this—coupled with a small community that has

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delineated vocal discourse with something unpleasant—how are they to know any better?

Moreover, who was the first person to introduce the word ‘gay’ to their son, congratulating its

use as an insult without bothering to negotiate its core foundations? This is the importance of

language in our daily lives; if no argument is made, there can be no rebuttal to defend such

discourses.

       I was sixteen when I first heard the term ‘asexual’. It was being used in an argument by a

high school teacher, who was attempting to discredit asexuality via her own social experiences.

She said:

       “Everyone I’ve ever met who identified as asexual has, at one point or another, either had

       sex or changed their mind later. In fact, there’s only one scenario that I can think of

       where a man was so adamant to prove his own asexuality that he surgically removed his

       own penis. He had it delivered to an adversary on a silver tray, like a dish.”

Because of this, my first impressions of asexuality suggested that I would have to mutilate

myself in order for my identity to be validated in the eyes of heteronormative society. I did not

have the language or the reasoning to know otherwise. While I deeply resonated with asexuality

on many levels, it wasn’t presented positively in any of the spoken discourses or studies present

in my social or academic life. Like the term ‘gay’, it became an invalidated insult meant to imply

prudishness or physical deficit. It was a word given a reprise by someone else controlling the

political discourses of my vocabulary, taking the term and redefining it to suit hypersexualized

standards. I disagreed with what she had said but because of my lack of evidence, though I

offered no opposition to what had been discussed. In a quiet town wherein rebuttal was the

loudest noise of all, my silence implied a sort of resignation to those heteronormative ideals.

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       At the time, I was under the impression that I did not have enough evidence or language

to refute these statements. And yet, examples of asexuality continued to present themselves

everywhere, especially in books and films wherein I was told there were none. I read many

novels and great epics wherein sensuality was assumed or implied when nonsexuality was all

that was present, as romance became a sort of misguided indication of sexual behavior. Living

within a hypersexual world disregarded these examples and my own asexuality, assuring me that

perhaps one day I would be “mature enough” to understand while overlooking explicit examples

of nonsexual behavior. Yet, in media and in social discourses people still continued to make

claims about the “newness” of asexuality, accrediting this to recent technological advancements

that allowed for a modern understanding of the word to blossom in an online platform (Tucker,

(A)sexual 2011).

       Just as romance had (allegedly) alluded to sexual activity in the literature I had read, the

newness of asexual discussion began to produce many misconceptions about nonsexual behavior.

Many confused it for chastity or celibacy, while others called it an excuse for prudishness. No

matter how these ideas were confronted or refuted, it continued to be this ‘new’ idea that

bounced between hypersexualized stereotypes while ignoring obvious examples that existed in

literature prior to these technological advancements. To someone like me, who was both

asexually queer and closeted, this erasure appeared almost deliberate. It was as if the

heteronormative and hypersexualized society surrounding me had shut its eyes to the life I lived

every day, trying to find new ways to undermine my identity by proposing regulations in the

form of inquiries as a means to constrain asexual conduct. Those questions, designed to

implement a sense of self-doubt, haunted me with every confrontation:

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       Would I still be asexual if I had sex? Would I still be asexual for considering trying sex?

Can I be asexual and want love at the same time? Why would I, an asexual, pursue a relationship

with someone who is not asexual? Moreover, if my feelings towards sexuality should change,

was my asexuality valid at all? Did I have a place in the LGBT+ community without sex, or even

at pride parades? As sex columnist Dan Savage notes in Angela Tucker’s documentary

(A)sexual:

       “It’s funny to think about, you know. You’ve got the gays marching for the right to be

       cocksucking homosexuals and then you have the asexuals marching for the right to not do

       anything, which is hilarious. Like you didn’t need to march for that right, you just needed

       to stay home and not do anything.” (Tucker 2011)

Here, Savage asks the most damning question of all: why march for something that you already

have a right to? Yet, the question overlooks the privilege of aligning with the hypersexualized

nature of normative society, ignoring the consequences that many face when they fall outside of

normative traditions.

       I was almost twenty before I was able to put into words the nature of my own asexual

identity: panromantic graysexual. In doing so, I was forced to face each and every one of these

questions, to offer some defense and hope it would be enough. It has become a substantial part of

my everyday life, as it continues to affect the way I digest and interpret literature, form romantic

relationships, and posit a clear understanding of my own identity. The most frustrating part of all

of this was that I saw examples of nonsexuality in almost every reading I’d been assigned in my

secondary school experiences, and for all of my silent tolerances I wanted nothing more than to

illustrate how the evidence people seemed to be looking for—true examples of asexual behavior

prior to the modern era—were all right there.

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         They called it by different names, sometimes even mistaking it for friendship or

homosexuality, but they continued to promote asexual narratives while undermining my own

asexual identity. It’s been present without the language available to describe it, and it exists even

when rebuttals are not being made in its defence. This analysis is the beginning of a conversation

designed to illustrate the asexual individual when heteronormative ideals suggest otherwise. It

starts here, no longer silent or passive about the stereotypes that asexuality faces in the literary

world.

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                         Introduction: Beginning an Asexual Analysis

       The historical necessity for a reevaluation of asexuality in its modern definition is

mandated through examples of the asexual in between the 19th and 20th-centuries, wherein the

term was first coined. As the word, and the asexual spectrum, was repurposed to describe the

nuances of the nonsexual behavior, it has been historically overlooked due to erotonormative

customs that suppose allosexuality prior to asexual intimacy. Here, the term erotonormative is

used to define heteronormative customs surrounding sexuality, placing emphasis on the

stereotyped assumption of sexuality prior to any nonsexual behavior. Likewise, the term

allosexual is used to describe any persons or characters who regularly experience sexual

attraction. Many assume that the word (as well as its modern definition) is the result of

technological advancements that have made global communication more easily accessible and

effective. However, this is merely one of a plethora of other erotonormative assumptions about

the asexual spectrum that will be undone through an asexual analysis of the literary classics of

the 19th and 20th-centuries.

       By focusing on the home or setting of the characters in question, asexuality will present

itself through discourses that ignore allosexual stereotypes, privileging the objective evaluation

of queerplatonic discourses through the opposition of erotonormative archetypes. These analyses

will also take into consideration the differences between romantic intention and sexual attraction,

highlighting the differences as a means of illustrating the broadness of the asexual spectrum.

Asexual representation is not a method of proscribed behaviors assumed to be sanitized of sex or

companionship, but a reflection of the nuance and gray that is present in the spectrum. By

highlighting these complexities within works such as Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises,

Alan Dale’s A Marriage Below Zero, Mary Eleanor Wilkins Freeman’s “Two Friends”, and Kate

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Chopin’s The Awakening, the asexual erasure between these 19th and 20th-century classics can

be undone from each narrative.

       Without definition, asexuality was without recognition as a bonafide sexual orientation

prior to the 21st-century. When coupled with the lack of technological advancement, which was

responsible for most of the conversation surrounding asexuality at the start of the 21st-century,

many of the processes necessary in recognizing asexuality within individuals before the modern

era were greatly hindered. This, when combined with a rise in technological advancement —

which helped with the reassignment of the term—has left many under the impression that

asexuality is a new-age idea of sexuality. Due to its lack of recognition and improper

reassignment of terminology, many assumed that either it must not have existed before the rise in

technological advancements or that it is only present in young adults (Decker 68). In a time

without proper language to associate many of the subsets and characteristics associated with

asexuality, there simply wasn’t language available to define the sexual orientation preceding

these instances. This is not to say that examples of asexuality did not exist until the 21st-century

as the word began to gain traction, but that the language available to prescribe an accurate

understanding of this behavior was often confused asexuality with another, less accurate term

instead.

       While the nationality of the novels and short stories may not affect how the asexual

analysis of the texts is conducted, the renowned nature of the classics permits a general

assumption that—as the texts are well-known in academic study—many have either heard of or

read the texts. Without the proper language to describe or expose asexual relationships in these

works, they have been historically subjected to erasure and misinterpretation as they were

reexamined via social norms that privilege erotonormativity, or the hypersexual discourses of

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heteronormative society. As Elizabeth Hanna Hanson notes in her essay “Toward an Asexual

Narrative Structure”, sexual attraction has evolved to become a “universal and uniform”

presupposition in society that she refers to as erotonormativity (345). Erotonormativity first

assumes allosexuality, the definition used to describe people who experience sexual attraction,

and therefore privileges this above asexual supposition (see Hille). Moreover, it assumes that

other examples of allosexuality (such as homosexuality or lesbianism) are more likely than

asexual outcomes.

        Asexual relationships are commonly mistaken or mislabeled today as simply queer,

heteronormative (when the participants are of opposite sexes), or celibate when the reality of

their content is devoid of any sexual interest or desire. Without personal understanding or insight

into the relationship, it can be easy to misinterpret things like this. In absence of proper

identifiers, it becomes even harder to assess the true nature of the relationship, if there is one.

Such can be said for the literary texts analyzed in the following segment of this project. As will

be demonstrated in this project, the omission of erotonormative stereotypes and added

prominence on the physical location of housing illustrates nonsexual behavior. Until proven

allosexual, allosexuality will not take precedence over asexual assumption.

        By proving that these renowned texts can contain examples of asexual relationships prior

to the modern redefinition of the term, it is possible to undo the historical erasure that the

absence of such language has caused. This change in perspective, an asexual analysis of these

texts using the modern understanding of the term, allows for new relationships and information

to be derived from work that has been studied for centuries, exposing the possibility that

asexuality exists as freely and naturally in literature as it does in day-to-day life.

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       Words without definition often lack presence in literary and historical recognition, and

the same can be said for asexuality. By reestablishing a definition for it—as without definition,

the historical erasure of the subject is to be expected—asexual recognition becomes easier to

recognize in literature. Definitions are beneficial in this way, as they align with various

explanations for specific types of behavior (especially those that often defy social expectations).

This sort of concept is discussed in depth by philosophers such as Michel Foucault, who critiques

the process of definition as one that constricts any literary concept it attempts to explain (62).

However, the creation of a word also implies the constraint of its mobility in our social lives. As

was noted in his book, The History of Sexuality, the creation of a word—especially when that

word has connotations towards sexuality—is parallel to the confession of its significance

(Foucault 59). It is a confession that creates an awareness of the term in question that resonates

in significance as much as if a person were to come out1. In this way, while confession

announces a set of social regulations by which a person might identify themselves, their

confession creates and utilizes the language necessary to carry on modes of analysis in a literary

mode. As Foucault wrote: “One confesses in public and in private, to one’s parents, one’s

educators, one’s doctor, to those one loves; one admits to oneself, in pleasure and in pain, things

it would be impossible to tell anyone else, the things people write books about” (59). To write

books—to start a literary conversation—one needs the language to do so. And to have language,

one needs to define it.

       The definition of asexuality came about in the 18th-century, defining the term as an

organism that reproduces without the need of another organism2. Though created to explain and

1
  The phrase “come out” refers to the process by which a non-heteronormative person might
announce or confess their sexual or gender orientation.
2
  (www.etymonline.com)

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further scientific data, the meaning of the word has shifted from a purely scientific standpoint to

a socialized one, which mandates its redefinition in a modern context. From the late 20th-century

onwards, the modern use of the word describes a sexual orientation, not the processes of

reproduction in an organism (Mollet 78). However, this is a rudimentary start for defining the

term as a whole, as Ela Przybylo notes in her book Asexual Erotics that nonsexuality serves as a

better way to define the term, as “it helps make sense of the ways that various articulations and

iterations of low sexual desire and sexual absence, although they have always existed, (as they)

have not always been nameable as ‘asexuality’ or coalesced under an identity of asexuality that

has subjective meaning for those who use it” (29). Shifting from a focus on what is lacking in

sexuality suggests that there is a defect in asexual behavior, as it privileges and normalizes

allosexual behavior while negating (Przybylo 4). By this, one can defer away from a generic and

overly simplified definition—which focuses on what is lacking in a person—by reflecting on

what is avoided or preferred within any one person. The use of the term ‘nonsexual’ detracts

from the overly sexualized norms of heteronormative society, exposing how hypersexualization

has become a socialized expectation while also avoiding any accusation of ‘lacking’ or

‘debilitation’ in an individual.

       Normativity in any form creates a predisposition in social understanding, which implies a

lack of general curiosity in the matter. The supposition of heteronormativity proposes an

understanding that without confrontation to the normative order, there will be a lack of

educational or academic representation on the subject (Hanson 344). As she states in her essay:

       This neglect is symptomatic of a wider cultural propensity toward asexual erasure. We

       are disposed to deal with absences of any kind by installing content in them in order to

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       recuperate them as presences—a process which can make asexuality difficult to

       articulate, and conversely, the only means by which it can be articulated. (344)

Affirming both what Ela Przybylo and Hanson suggest when they exploit the lack of asexual

representation in academic literature and education: any vacancy of conversation only impedes

social ability to advocate for the subject in question. By creating a sense of normativity around

this lack of dialogue—through the suggestion that there is no other dialogue to be had—

academia has formed a stunt in asexual understanding prior to the solidification of the term’s

definition.

       As a sexual orientation, much of asexual visibility is accredited to recent technological

advancements made at the end of the 20th-century, as the birth of the internet enabled social

media platforms to expand communicative efforts between more people across the globe (Decker

68). Be that as it may, much of the misinformation about asexuality begins with the misdirection

of information based on assumption. From the creation of the term ‘asexual’ in the 18th-century,

as it was used to define asexual reproduction, asexuality has transcended its original definition

and grown to encompass a whole new genre of literature that wasn’t properly redefined until the

early 21st-century3. Those brief centuries were the predecessors of an entire branch of literature

for the LGBTQ+ community that has been otherwise camouflaged in erasure. This is not to say

that asexual relationships did not exist or were not present in the literary prior to the 19th-

century, but that the repurposed language to make such discussion possible had been otherwise

absent before that timeline4.

3
(www.etymonline.com)
4
(www.etymonline.com)

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       Given sources such as the Asexuality Visibility and Education Network (AVEN), an

online platform designed to house conversations about asexuality, the technological movement

following the end of the 20th-century has sparked more opportunities for others to discuss

asexual preferences more clearly. As an article called “Asexual Resonances: Tracing a Queerly

Asexual Archive”, written by Ela Przybylo and Danielle Cooper, states:

       Asexuality’s existing archives can be usefully understood as circulating within two

       predominant bodies of thinking. The first, the scientific literature on asexuality,

       consolidates a truth archive. This expanding body of work, while politically significant

       for increasing asexual visibility, legibility, and legitimacy, also operates as the ‘truth’ of

       asexuality, as the proven fact. Crucially, the truth archive informs and is informed by

       asexuality’s vernacular archive, that body of examples that is more fluid and changing,

       but that still capitulates, too often, to certain exclusionary mechanisms and parameters of

       exception. (300)

The validation, advancement, and history of sexuality is contingent upon articles that

scientifically separate the biological processes from the socialized understanding of the word,

illustrating that asexuality qualifies as a sexuality rather than a disability. This is what the authors

refer to as the “truth archive” (300). By proxy, the vernacular archive contains texts and articles

which embody the content of asexual conversation or fiction but that exist in the form of

literature, online content, or blogs. AVEN is one such vernacular archive for asexual literature,

furthering the contemporary definition of the term through an online platform (Przybylo and

Cooper 300). This terminology is necessary and vital in differentiating potential archives for

asexual resources, illustrating how both archives are contingent on the modern century, though it

creates a predicament for asexual literature prior to the 21st-century. In order to source out

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examples of asexual relationships in 19th to 20th-century literature, older literary texts must be

sourced out as though they are a part of the vernacular archive, whose fluidity is supported and

benefitted by the truth archive mentioned in Przybylo and Cooper’s article (300).

                                 Structuring an Asexual Narrative

       In each of the following chapters of this project, the various facets of asexuality will

begin with a detailed description and illustration of nonsexual behavior as it combats allosexual

expectation in a literary context. Woven into the subsections of each chapter will be the literary

analyses of Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, Alan Dale’s A Marriage Below Zero, Mary

Eleanor Wilkins Freeman’s short story “Two Friends”, and Kate Chopin’s The Awakening,

supporting the chapters with illustrations of the asexual behavior provided by each independent

literary classic. As the methodology of asexual analysis relies heavily on the removal of

erotonormative assumptions from these literary classics, Chapter 1: Undressing Erotonormative

Stereotypes will begin this analysis through the exemplification of the social norms that

camouflage nonsexual behavior within these works of literature. Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun

Also Rises will occupy the first subsection, illustrating the complex relationship between

allosexual norms, masculinity, and disability while also highlighting the constant scenery shift

within the novel.

       Chapter 2: The Asexual Spectrum will follow by expanding the archive of terminology

available for asexual behavior, furthering this project’s ability to identify nonsexual relationships

in the literature present through the development of varying projections of asexuality that often

interact with sex. In doing so, this chapter confronts the sanitized ideas of the asexual spectrum

while also validating a nonsexual relationship with the act of sex. Thus, the following subsection

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of Alan Dale’s A Marriage Below Zero will provide concrete examples of the terminology

provided. Nevertheless, rather than moving on to a different topic of conversation, Chapter 2:

The Asexual Spectrum will continue into a different subsection following this analysis of Alan

Dale’s text, discussing the various synonyms available for asexuality that are often misdiagnosed

as homosexuality or friendship as a result of erotonormative assumptions. These synonyms will

then be instantiated in the final subsection of this chapter devoted to Mary Eleanor Wilkins

Freeman’s short story “Two Friends”.

       The final chapter of this project, Chapter 3: The Demi Rhetoric, will bring into discussion

the relationship between romance and asexuality as it arises in literature. This chapter

complicates the relationship between attraction and the asexual spectrum through the proposal

that though not all romantic interests allude to sexual ones, those which exemplify a consistent

relationship with sex might not either. Kate Chopin’s The Awakening is instrumental to the

illustration of this relationship, as it will project the development of an asexual identity through

her complex emotional and romantic relationships with others. As a result, asexuality does not

typify itself through isolating behavior, but by defying social norms that privilege the individual.

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                        Chapter 1: Undressing Erotonormative Stereotypes

       Before the reassignment of the definition of the term ‘asexual’ from its scientific roots to

its references as a sexual orientation, this concept was without proper definition and context for

an unprecedented period of time. This shift in language—from biological science to sexual

preference—exposes the provision of definition and the reassignment of that definition is as

effective as relocating the absence of one. As Michel Foucault notes within his book, The

History of Sexuality:

       It is often said that we have been incapable of imagining any new pleasures. We have at

       least invented a different kind of pleasure, the pleasure of knowing truth, of discovering

       and exposing it, the fascination of seeing and telling it, of captivating and capturing

       others by it, of confiding in it in secret, of luring it out in the open—specific pleasure of

       the true discourse of pleasure. (71)

This quote makes note of the lack of vocabulary surrounding the asexual vernacular archive prior

to the 21st-century adaptation of the word into a vehicle designed to describe nonsexuality,

thereby suggesting that the application of modern definitions to older subjects and literary works

will be able to uncover examples or situations of asexuality that were misinterpreted as cases of

prudishness, asocialness, or celibacy within the characters in focus. Such things are often modern

stereotypes that misinform others of asexuality. Rumors or notions like those mentioned are

designed to discredit the person identifying as asexual. Moreover, the claim of asexuality is one

that is constantly confronted as it develops or evolves within a person or character. Certain social

expectations are assumed and continuously challenged after asexuality has made itself known,

which scrutinizes all other relationships—sexual or asexual—between the individual and others.

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For example, should a person use asexuality as a reason to avoid sexual interactions, one might

assume that the statement is a false claim designed to disguise prudishness. This assumption is

often incited by a general erasure of asexual behavior by mistaking it for chastity and the

demonization of celibate behavior.

        This project takes care to distinguish the terms ‘asexual’ and ‘celibate’ carefully, as the

latter of the two suggests that nonsexual behavior arises out of choice rather than orientation. Ela

Przybylo takes care to recognize the distinctions between the two, as she makes reference to the

feminist history behind asexuality (44). Celibacy, unlike asexuality, is a constant choice made by

an individual to maintain nonsexual activity, typically for the benefit of the practitioner

(Przybylo 39). Oftentimes, celibate individuals actually express both desire and sexual attraction

towards others while engaging in celibacy, as will be noted in Ela Przybylo’s book that this is

often “a ‘misinterpretation of asexuality as the honorable achievement or performance of sexual

restraint’” (104). In actuality, celibacy is the withholding of sex or sensual urges out of personal

choice or, as is seen in the history of asexuality as it appears in political discourses, as a result of

social or political boycotting (Przybylo 44). This was referred to as political asexuality in the

early 1960s (Przybylo 39). As a gendered movement throughout the 1960s and 1970’s, this

movement encouraged women to boycott sexuality as a response to the systemic misogyny that

confined—and in some ways, continues to confine—women. While it is admirable that the term

‘asexual’ here is serving a different literary definition than its predecessor, it is important to note

that this understanding of asexuality is not the definition that will be utilized or analyzed in

literature between 19th and 20th-century literature. This is because political asexuality is being

used here as a synonym for celibacy; to say that the two are the same is to claim that asexual

orientation is a conscious choice, making it less of a sexual orientation and more of a lifestyle.

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Given this and the hypersexual nature of the modern era, it is not uncommon for asexual

individuals to be accused or confused for celibate individuals invoking a period of chastity when

the political discourse of the term suggests as much. To avoid stereotyped assumptions over the

duration of this project, political asexuality will be recognized as a form of political celibacy that

differs from the modern understanding of asexuality as a valid sexual orientation.

       Given the lack of language available to describe asexuality at the time, this assumption is

not an uncommon one. In much of the literature that will be analyzed in this project, the majority

of the homoromantic relationships present were first accused of homosexuality as a means of

explaining the intimate nature of these partnerships (or the lack thereof). In this way, many

asexual characters can be easily misidentified as lesbian or gay, when the nonsexual nature of

their relationship might suggest otherwise. Without language to properly distinguish terms such

as ‘lesbian’ from ‘homoromantic’, asexual erasure in literature often appears as unconscious

mislabeling rather than malicious censorship.

       While the nature of asexuality can be both varied and complex, the method by which

asexuality will be uncovered in literary fashion will confront the already present erotonormative

and heteronormative stereotypes present within each assumption. By stripping away unjust

normative assumptions that are designed to critique the nonsexual nature of asexuality, while

placing emphasis on the local which contains or harbors such relationships, the romantic and

emotional intimacies of an asexual or queerplatonic relationship will be given visibility even

without the proper language to define the nature of such relationships. In doing so, it will be

uncovered that asexuality does not appear complacent within narratives that are not overtly

romantic, but furthers the plot and social relationships present within those narratives.

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       While scholars such as Elizabeth Hanna Hanson argue that asexuality would create a

disjointed presence within the literary narrative, stating that the “stagnant” nature of asexuality

will disrupt personal and social growth within a fictional setting, authors like Ela Przybylo

combat such assumptions by illustrating how asexuality promotes growth and expansion rather

than confinement (103). Hanson states in her essay "Toward an Asexual Narrative Structure":

"Asexuality, as the nonexperience of sexual attraction, has no object, no aim, no tendency toward

movement in any direction, which is precisely what makes the asexual possibility so disruptive

in narrative" (350). The author states blatantly that she prefers to correlate asexuality structurally

with stasis as it disrupts the general pace or movement of the surrounding narrative (349).

However, her understanding of asexuality as devoid of motion or intention reduces asexuality

past its most basic component: humanity. Asexuality, just like any other sexual orientation,

cannot exist separate from the human condition. While it is true that, by itself, asexuality is

incapable of having aim or motive, people and fictional characters almost certainly do. The use

of the word ‘stasis’ conforms to a stereotype perpetuated by erotonormative society, invoking the

idea that heteronormative society moves forward with allosexuality. Due to the fact that

asexuality is often mistaken for the lack of sexuality, this idea creates the impression that these

individuals are at a social standstill in comparison to their peers.

       The hypocrisy in these stereotypes remains in how sexuality is presented to the youth. Ela

Przybylo confronts this matter within a chapter of her book Asexual Erotics called “Growing into

Asexuality”, wherein she mentions that:

       Ironically, even while childhood is desexualized, and sexual education tends to erase

       sexuality out of curricula, there is a hidden curriculum, which takes for granted that

       children will transform into sexual adults. Expectations that adults will grow into being

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       sexual—that is, grow into being interested in sex and propelled by sexual desire—are

       grounded in the ideas about the naturalness of sexuality… In other words, the

       ‘straightening effects’ that take place in childhood and youth are entangled in a

       developmental narrative that sees sexuality as its end goal, even while sanitizing sexual

       expression along the way. (93)

In stating this, the text highlights the sanitization of sexuality from academic and social

curriculums as it leaves both people and characters alike no choice but to grow into their own

sexual identities, as the stagnant nature of sexuality presents itself in education as hyposexual

while adopting hypersexual expectations (Przybylo 96). In this way, asexuality—just like

homosexuality and heterosexuality—becomes a thing to grow into as well, as the term does not

allude to a lack of sexuality but the nonsexual nature of their attractions to others. Because the

definition of asexuality within this project does not define asexuality through what it is lacking,

there is nothing to lose or to stagnate the presence of asexuality in any social or literary contexts.

To conduct an asexual analysis of certain characters, defining asexuality through their

relationships in a literary narrative, it will not be necessary to observe or exploit how such

characters disjoint the narrative but rather how their presence or opposition in the text better

defines them by pushing forward their independence and identification of self. In this way, the

stereotyped stasis of asexual behavior will not be used to detect examples of asexuality, but

rather a rejection of the erotonormativity that subdues introspective growth or change (which can

be seen as acceptance) within some characters of a literary narrative. To be plain, given that

asexuality is expressed by how a nonsexual person grows into and adapts to their sexuality, this

change will affect and transform the literary narratives of each and every character included in

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this project’s analysis. To do so, the erotonormative stereotypes must be stripped from the

analysis, which will be focused on the setting which contains the character’s narrative.

       In first supposing that allosexuality is a fallacy without further textual evidence, this

analysis will illustrate how deeply erotonormativity relies on these stereotyped assumptions. To

remove erotonormative assumptions from a literary narrative—as they first perceive a

relationship or pairing to be inherently sexual—the opposite must be done with each character

and relationship in the novels and short stories discussed. Therefore, until some sort of sexual

attraction is explicitly stated or exemplified within each text, the assumption posited will be that

there is none. As these observations will be based around the home or setting that each character

resides in, the space which houses their close or intimate relationships will be scrutinized for the

explicit sexual conduct that erotonormativity assumes.

       The image of a home signifies the independence of an individual; in an asexual narrative,

the people included in this setting, whether it be mobile or not, should be kept under careful

consideration in an analysis, as the home literally and symbolically draws space between social

norms, civic obligations, and their own values. The space through which an asexual person

grows and changes is transformative in a literary narrative. A great deal of asexual terminology

revolves around where the people or characters reside, using the image of shared space to

represent commitment in the place of erotonormative standards.

       When the space housing these erotornormative stereotypes combats social transition, the

relationship between oneself and any underlying preferences becomes clearer to distinguish. One

such stereotype that often combats medical and social discourses in this way is the suggestion

that asexuality is a mental or physical disability or something caused by disability. Such

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statements reduce asexual behavior to a treatable disorder which can be remedied. In positing

this idea, erotonormativity becomes a clinical problem to be corrected by society, privileging the

erotization of normative behavior while also proposing a hazardous deficit in nonsexuality.

However, as will be discussed in the following section analyzing the asexual nature of Ernest

Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, a very real example of physical disability is used to

proactively develop an asexual narrative that supports the idea that sexuality is fluid and

independent of physical condition, whilst also negotiating the hazards of nonsexuality.

               From Impotence to Asexuality in Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises

       Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises (1926) demonstrates the fluidity of sexuality, as

Jake Barnes exemplifies the process through which one subverts erotonormative expectations by

being physically unable to conform to them, as a physical injury from his service in war prevents

him from consummating any relationship. Through the discourses offered by Ela Przybylo in her

book, Asexual Erotics and her essay “Masculine Doubt and Sexual Wonder: Asexually-Identified

Men Talk About Their (A)sexualities”, the consequences of asexual fluidity in conjunction with

intersectional disability prompts a heteronormative critique of this transition as it begins to

oppose those erotonormative ideals. This leads to the fetishization of the asexual entity seen

within Jake, as is discussed within Karli Cernakowski’s essay, “Spectacular Asexuals: Media

Visibility and Cultural Fetish”. In addition to this, the emphasis placed on constant movement

and travel within the novel’s narrative thus dissociates the character from being able to ground

his identity or home in one space while placing attention on key figures that keep acquaintances

with him despite this constant state of motion. His transition from impotence to asexuality arises

in the heteroromantic relationship that deteriorates between himself and his love interest, Lady

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Brett Ashley, as she begins pursuing other relationships to compensate for the lack of sexual

attraction posed by Jake.

       As the character of Jake Barnes struggles to come to terms with a wound he received

while serving in the war—one which incapacitates his ability to have or initiate sex—his

relationship with one Lady Brett changes dramatically due to the lack of sexual content between

them. As Lady Brett’s adamant promiscuity demands the heteronormative reciprocation of

sexual interest in her suitors, of which Jake was previously one, his inability to adhere to those

erotonormative regimens rejects these constructs in an indisputable fashion. As she rejects his

advances following the accident, Jake continues to pine for Lady Brett despite his condition; his

advances appear entirely romantic, with some emphasis placed on intimate closeness such as

kissing and cuddling (Hemingway 26). While his physical disability prevents him from being

able to reconcile his relationship with her (which can only be done physically and via sex), his

asexuality merely becomes a more dominant and noticeable presence in their relationship

following the accident which made him sexually inept. Such can be seen in this section of the

text, wherein Jake states to Lady Brett: “‘...What happened to me is supposed to be funny. I

never think about it’” (Hemingway 26).

       Though his condition suggests that his asexuality is thoroughly clinical, the narrative of

the novel treats Jake Barnes’s impotence as a defining characteristic of his construct; it is

something he must grow into and accept, demonstrating the fluidity of sexuality in a medicinal

way. As Julie Decker notes in her book The Invisible Orientation:

       Sometimes disabilities and health conditions can affect or be related to the lack of libido,

       lack of interest in sex, or lack of passion for or ability to engage in sex, but if this is the

       case for a person who self-describes as asexual, there is really no practical reason to say

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       that person’s experience of asexuality is less legitimate. Everyone is affected by their

       physical existence, and asexual is what we call someone who isn’t experiencing sexual

       attraction to others, regardless of why. (Decker 80)

Here, the same logic can be applied to the case of Jake Barnes, with the exception of his self-

proclaimed asexuality. Given that the modern understanding of the term ‘asexual’ hadn’t been

solidified during the 20th-century period that The Sun Also Rises was published, such a statement

would have been impossible. Moreover, there is no need to illustrate the absence of Jake’s sexual

attraction towards Lady Brett, as the lack of reciprocation towards her sexual advances (due to

this hindrance) maintain his romantic attraction towards her, despite their sexual incompatibility,

wherein Jake does not lament his inability to have sex with her, but her rejection of their

romantic compatibility in response to his asexual condition.

       As the subject of Jake’s injury—or lack of sexual ability—is discussed very little, the plot

of The Sun Also Rises accentuates the romantic and platonic relationships taking place between

Jake and other characters. Though Lady Brett’s physical attraction to men perpetuates her

interest in Jake, his interest in her is maintained through their constant emotional and romantic

semantics. For this reason, there is a narrative push towards romantic intention with an

unrequited commitment due to the lack of sexual compatibility between Jake and his romantic

interest. The differences between romantic and sexual attraction within Jake Barnes emerge out

of necessity, as sexuality is no longer a heteronormative choice available to him. Ergo, the

heteroromantic attraction Jake exhibits towards Lady Brett is highlighted through the injury that

renders him nonsexual (medicinally influencing his asexual nature). Subsequently, the fluidity of

his sexuality illustrates itself, creating a correlated relationship between the war-wound and his

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current sexual identity as it results in an intersectional asexual entity. As Ela Przybylo notes in

her book, Asexual Erotics:

          Broadening the archive around asexuality involves thinking about asexuality

          intersectionality, questioning why asexuality can only “count” if it is a born-this-way

          type of sexual orientation, allowing for (a)sexual fluidity over the lifespan, and focusing

          on queer and feminist representations of asexuality in particular (15).

Keeping this in mind, the intersectional relationship that forms is a combination of Jake Barnes’s

disability with his newfound asexual orientation, as it places more emphasis on his

heteroromantic desire to be with the character of Lady Brett. However, she chooses not to

commit to their relationship forthrightly—or the potential relationship—given his inability to

reciprocate her sexual advances.

          While Jake’s attitude and general emotional compatibility with Lady Brett are

unchanged, this change in his physical selection creates a tension between the two that is

constantly pressured by Lady Brett through her heightened focus on sex. However, this is

perplexed by the fact that Jake does not explicitly lament his inability to have sex with her, nor

his sudden lack of sexual attraction, but rather that their relationship isn’t sufficiently satisfactory

within the nonsexual limits it has been confined to; while he demonstrates a desire for closeness

and intimacy, Jake never overtly declares a desire to have started—or to maintain—a sexual

relationship with her (Hemingway 26). In response to Lady Brett’s desires, Jake even notes: “I

never used to realize it, I guess5. I try and play it along and not make trouble for people. I

probably never would have had any trouble if I hadn’t run into Brett… I suppose she only

wanted what she couldn’t have. Well, people were that way… The Catholic Church had an

5
    His war wound.

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awfully good way of handling all that. Good advice, anyway. Not to think about it” (Hemingway

31).

       Lady Brett’s attraction to Jake in this way is fetishizing his asexual nature, creating a

compulsory romantic friendship with him while acknowledging that his sexuality is no longer

aligned with hers. Moreover, her monogamous views of romantic relationships limit her ability

to compromise or negotiate with his newfound asexuality (Hemingway 31). This is touched on

by Karli Cerankowski as well in her essay “Spectacular Asexuals: Media Visibility and Cultural

Fetish”, wherein she states: “Fixation is fixed on the body in order to make that body into the

same and the familiar. There is a demand to know the details of the sexual workings and

experiences of that body precisely to place sex and sexual desire onto the body that resists it.” In

representing Jake’s character like this, “the asexual body becomes a thing to be conquered”

(Cerankowski 146).

       The dissonance instigated between both Jake and Lady Breton arises through a show of

sexual incompatibility, and as a result, critiques Jake’s masculinity through a show of what part

sexual attraction plays in his normative lifestyle. As is noted in Ela Przybylo’s essay, “Masculine

Doubt and Sexual Wonder: Asexually-Identified Men Talk About Their (A)sexualites”:

               Manliness is thus ultimately bound up with not only having sex but also with

       ostentatiously performing an interest in sex when among other men…

               The participants thus draw a direct connection between sex, sexual performance,

       and what it means to be a man. (232-233)

This section of the text highlights how the cultural discourses segregate the gendered constructs

which inform erotonormative expectations. Though Jake was previously informed by those

erotonormative standards, his newfound position as an asexual entity provokes the fetishization

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of his sexual impotence through the criticism of his own manhood. Moreover, the implication

that a structured sense of his masculinity is dependent on sexual performance creates a goal-

oriented perspective of sex that is predominantly furthered by erotonormative standards

(Przybylo 234).

       By linking the discourses of romantic and sexual tension between the two through the

focus of how the two follow one another throughout the narrative of the novel, the distance that

these characters fail to put between them only heightens the romantic, though nonsexual

relationship they share (on account of Jake’s asexuality). Given the unlocalized nature of the

narrative—as the plot takes place in a number of countries, hotels, and estates—the nonsexual

nature of the plot is accentuated through the chase situated between Jake and Lady Brett. Though

Book 1 of The Sun Also Rises takes place primarily in Paris, France, the second book within the

novel is situated within Pamplona, Spain. While the two are not explicitly together during the

entirety of this journey, they follow one another from place to place, oftentimes only journeying

at the recommendation of the other (Hemingway 82).

       The two follow one another from vacation to vacation, primarily journeying to various

cities and resorts in Spain. Ironically, though the two try—and fail—to maintain a non-romantic

friendship, their social discourses force them to constantly be within the conjoined spaces that

the two always seem to find themselves within. Moreover, despite the monogamous and non-

compromising nature of Lady Brett’s romantic and sexual discourses, her involvement with

several other characters does not detract from the physical as well as the emotional closeness she

shares with Jake (Hemingway 31). The lack of commitment illustrated between the two furthers

with each change in scenery, as the transnational scenery of the narrative does not deter the two

from maintaining the romantic attachment the two have. By placing emphasis on the fact that

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each of these suitors, Jake included, are bound together by civil and social discourses as opposed

to literal housing (and by proxy, the financial constraints that accompany those housing

developments), the narrative places focus on the intimate connection between Jake and Lady

Brett through the suggestion that no matter the location, their romantic connection (as well as

their nonsexual one) would bring the two together through the sheer force of their attraction to

one another. This discourse is commented upon freely by Jake himself, who states that, “‘You

can’t get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There’s nothing to that’”

(Hemingway 11). While in some respects this refers to his relationship with Lady Brett, this also

draws attention to Jake’s newfound asexual identity and its unchanging—though nevertheless

correlated—relationship with travel.

       Ernest Hemingway’s novel The Sun Also Rises posits a nonsexual discourse that subverts

both erotonormative and heteronormative expectations by implementing an intersectional

narrative within Jake Barnes that is both disabled and asexual. As both Ela Przybylo’s book

Asexual Erotics and essay “Masculine Doubt and Sexual Wonder: Asexually-Identified Men

Talk About Their (A)sexualities” note, the combination of these attributes draws attentions to the

masculine ideals upheld by such norm—which comment on Jake’s masculinity—thusly leading

to the fetishization of the asexual narrative discussed within Karli Cerankowski’s essay,

“Spectacular Asexuals: Media Visibility and Cultural Fetish”. As the two characters find

themselves bound to one another through their constant struggle with romantic compatibility (as

it is countered by sexual incompatibility), the ever-changing scenery of the plot highlights the

social discourses which bind the two together through their attraction. Though incompatible, the

war between romantic intention and sexual ability persists within a nonsexual narrative that

illustrates the most tenacious aspects of the asexual identity: fluidity does not imply

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changeability, though this is a common misconception of erotonormative ideals.

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                                Chapter 2: The Asexual Spectrum

       The importance of defining asexuality in terms of its nonsexual nature is exemplified in

what is present within a literary narrative, in that detracts from erotonormativity while also

emphasizing the romantic or social interactions within a narrative, as Ela Przybylo notes within

Asexual Erotics that “by using the language of ‘sexual attraction,’ asexuality is granted visibility

alongside other sexual orientations that likewise pivot the criterion of ‘sexual attraction’” (4).

However, the spectrum of sexuality is nuanced and not always devoid of sexual content. By this,

the term ‘asexual’ becomes a spectrum which is full of “gray areas” (Decker 35). Best noted in

the introductory sections of the book:

               For some people, sexual identity is very simple. It fits easily into well-defined

       boxes and is uncomplicated to describe. It’s not confusing to experience because it’s

       common and well represented in culture and media; it’s easy to know what to look for in

       a partner, the sorts of sexual experiences the relationship might lead to are predictable.

               But gray areas exist in all orientations. (35)

       Such gray is often found in asexuality, a variance which does not invalidate the term but

rather expands upon the spectrum of asexual orientation. Terms which are often associated with

or included under the spectrum of asexuality are gray-asexuality and demisexuality. Gray-

asexuality, also referred to as graysexuality, is used to describe individuals who “primarily live

with an asexual experience of the world, but can experience or have experienced sexual

attraction and wish to acknowledge it in their label” (Decker 36). This is a more complex

understanding of asexuality, as it implies a certain amount of inconsistency in terms of how a

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person relates to the concept of sexual desire. Typically, this is defined by the specifics of a

person’s relationship with attraction, varying from (but not limited to) the following examples:

              ■ They feel sexual attraction, but it is weak

              ■ They go through phases of feeling sexual attraction and phases of not feeling it

              ■ They feel attractions but are unsure of whether they are sexual attractions

              ■ They get caught up in another person’s sexual desire and enjoy it vicariously but

                 don’t feel it intrinsically

              ■ They only find a tiny sliver of the population sexually attractive

              ■ They find people sexy but have no attraction to them6

              ■ They find people sexy but have no physical reaction to them

              ■ They find people sexy but are unable or unwilling to pursue someone as a partner

                 (Decker 37)

          It is crucial to note that in each of these examples wherein sexual attraction or desire is

present, its inconsistency or scarceness is what proposes its asexual relationship to the individual.

Of course, as is wont with any person, declaring—or as Foucault would state, confessing—a

sexual orientation is an introspective action which can only be determined by the individual in

question. Within the literature, this suggests that any and all literature which outlines a

relationship relating to asexuality might not be featured in the traditional sense of the word. The

division of sensuality and romanticism are clearly outlined, distinguishing yet another gray

element of asexuality: how romanticism rejects the implication of sexual content.

6
    This is also known as ‘aesthetic attraction’ (Decker 6).

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       This divergence between romanticism and overt sensuality creates a variety of other

labels often found in the gray areas of asexuality. As Decker notes in her book, “some people

misinterpret aesthetic appreciation, romantic attraction, or sexual arousal for sexual attraction”,

highlighting another common misconception of sexuality: that romantic orientation coincides

with sexual attraction (6). In this way, a person with heteroromantic interest—or who is

romantically interested in those of the opposite sex—should not be presumed to also be

heterosexual. It can be perfectly plausible for someone who is heteroromantic to be asexual, as it

is common to combine the two orientation descriptors (Decker 36). These romantic descriptors

are commonly used by an individual to distinguish the nature of their romantic pursuits—of

any—when that individual also identifies with a label on the asexual spectrum.

       Other romantic terms commonly used in reference to this are: homoromantic, biromantic,

polyromantic, panromantic, grayromantic, demiromantic, and aromantic. Homoromanticism is

used to describe an individual who is romantically attracted to those of the same sex, while

biromanticism is used to describe an individual attracted to at least two or more sexes.

Polyromanticism describes a person attracted romantically to many sexes, while panromanticism

refers to a person who can be romantically attracted to anyone, regardless of sex. As was

discussed previously, the concept of ‘gray’ in any orientation implies a variance in how a person

perceives or experiences some form of attraction. Likewise, a person who identifies with

grayromanticism might only experience romantic attraction under very specific circumstances

with a considerable amount of fluidity as to how or when this attraction might occur. Often, the

term grayromanticism is further specified to include a preferred gender as well, such as the

example of a gray-biromantic asexual individual. This can be used to describe someone who

experiences grayromantic tendencies towards at least two sexes while on the asexual spectrum.